


but then again

by dendriax



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Interior Decorating, M/M, Slight Alcohol Abuse, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, iridescent conversational artilleries, memetic media melodrama, moping mechanisms, neoplatonic bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriax/pseuds/dendriax
Summary: Troy's done this already. Okay once, but he'd like to think he knows what to expect, and, well... Troy could be more wrong, he supposes.Parallel rookie year
Relationships: Jeff "Swoops" Troy & Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson & Jeff "Swoops" Troy, implied Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	but then again

Troy doesn't knock before letting himself and his belongings into the hotel room. It's gonna be Troy's home, too, for however long the Aces organization sees fit -- fingers crossed on that one -- and Troy's roommate is gonna have to vindicate Troy's alleged deficiency of manners sooner rather than later. Which is to say, Troy isn't paying much attention to his surroundings, is too busy hauling in his shit and yawning with his eyes half-closed that when he finally registers the tableau inside, he almost scarpers right back into the corridor.

Because standing before Troy in the unassuming room is Hockey Legend Bad Bob Zimmermann, whose attention's now turned to Troy and whose warm, authoritative voice is saying, "Hello, I'm Bob. You must be Jack's roommate Jeff," effectively causing Troy to blanch and freeze on the spot and also mentally blame everyone he ever met for not giving him any heads-up before this moment. Because seriously. And behind Hockey Legend Bad Bob Zimmermann is the future of hockey itself and -- apparently -- Troy's roommate Jack Zimmermann, who's shooting Troy an apologetic look as if Troy being too in-the-face-of-grandness to human is somehow his fault and not a thing that happens on the regular.

His second year, Troy thinks, bodes well already.

|

The cowlick is an abomination, is -- of all things -- the first thing Troy notices.

Troy first meets Kent Parson at the Aces practice facility. The fact is not at all weird, people meet for the first time at practice facilities all the time. It's just that the Aces lump their prospects in the same hotel, to facilitate team bonding, which is pointless because most of them are not gonna make it but whatever you can't think like that. The point is, they could've met sooner, should've, from like, being roommates, or living next door, or sharing a hallway, or exchanging sleepy-eyed nods while scavenging the breakfast bar in the too-early morning hours in close proximity.

But no. Camp's not even officially started yet and Kent Parson's already got an apartment. What a self-conceited dick, other prospects gripe between themselves. And Troy wholeheartedly agrees, except, well, it's Kent Parson, who is all of eighteen and freshly drafted and probably got an ELC shoved in his face the moment he stepped off the stage, maybe, and who Troy's pretty sure also got zero fucks left to give about what the Aces gossip network has to say. This is Kent Parson, the golden boy that's just been through a surplus of shit -- what with the weight of the hockey world rolling down on his shoulders and his former liney and best buddy going to rehab -- and still managed to look aptly put-together as though he was built to never be worse for wear. Which, okay, may be fucked up and also brings up the fact that Jack Zimmermann, who'd never appeared less than exceptional a day in his life, has found a way to be even more fucking exceptional... -ly fucked up. Not that Troy's ever actually met the guy or anything.

Anyway, back to the abominable cowlick. Or not, Coach is coming in.

|

Things progress as camp marches on and so they bond and contrary to the nature of the hockey community and what virtually everyone'd like you to believe, Jack Zimmermann is -- on several levels -- not that much of a dick. Sure, he doesn't talk much, is secure enough to go apartment hunting after one whole day, and generally spends too much time hunched over his phone, but he's nice about it. In a not-full-of-himself kind of way, even.

It's not like Troy ever forgets, because well, the Zimmermann-Parson hockey is so fucking beautiful it sometimes hurts. It's not cocky if you're the real deal, and Jack Zimmermann's not cocky, per se, he's just... apathetic? Not pathetic like the rest of them? Like, camp is brutal and most days all you wanna do is limp back to your cramped hotel room to let your sad hotel bed absorb your pain and watching Jack Zimmermann nonchalantly sail through drill after drill with practiced ease is just another reminder of how much, much better you can hope to be at hockey. Which does no favor to your shitty day at all.

And so tonight they're gonna get so drunk.

Fun fact, Jack Zimmermann's mere gaze can make you figuratively wither on the inside, no problem, but that's without alcohol. With alcohol, it's... well, whereas Jack Zimmermann sober mode regards doling out pertinent hockey wisdom as the only acceptable conversation starter, Jack Zimmermann intoxicated mode isn't indifferent to everything else in existence and is easygoing and prone to chuckling at your dumb jokes -- traits that Troy appreciates since Troy's the one who's attempted most of those poor dumb jokes -- which, frankly, is more than Troy could say for the humorless pigeons he played with last season. Not only that, crossed into wasted and Jack Zimmermann smiles unguardedly and is everyone's best bud, lighting up the room exuding spirit and joy, a clear sign as any that someone should step in before alcohol poisoning can take hold.

"I'm taking you home," Troy informs Jack Zimmermann decisively. A foolproof plan if there ever was one, except, "Uh, where is it?"

Despite having to put 66% of his weight on Troy, Jack Zimmermann remains coherent enough to navigate the way to his mysterious abode. Once inside, there's a distinct failed-at-adulting aura thick enough to suffocate full-fledged adults, a category in which Troy sure is not. The bedroom in particular has assorted mayhem neatly strewn around and a lone air mattress on the floor at ground zero, onto which Jack Zimmermann flumps down and promptly zonks out with one and a half shoes still on.

Troy takes a breath. Having made a resolution this summer to try and be a good teammate and hockey player as well as person in general, he goes to raid the kitchen -- which, surprisingly, is rather well-stocked -- for something drinkable to put within Jack Zimmermann's range of motion, and then debates whether making sure the savior of hockey doesn't perish in his sleep is a good enough reason to stick around.

|

The morning finds Troy getting awakened by someone poking at him, someone who happens to be Kent Parson, looking generically disgruntled but not quite glaring. Troy blinks a few times. This close, Kent Parson's eyes are very... profound. Conflicted yet focused. Like calm things that burn.

Quietly, Troy exists and is content just watching Kent Parson watching him back. They're lying on their sides. The blow-up mattress is amazingly comfy. There is no need to move. And it may just be Troy being low-key hungover but every time Troy blinks Kent Parson's eyes seem to, like, change colors? Is that a thing? How the hell can that be a thing?

"You're here," Kent Parson remarks in an unwarrantedly loud voice, frowning as his eyes turn an icier shade of disgruntled.

Troy blinks again, resurfacing from his fugue and realizing how weird this may be from Kent Parson's perspective, opens his mouth to say something, anything, finds his mouth woefully cottony, weighs his options, and in the end resorts to looking meek and smiling sheepishly. The hangover may not be as low-key as Troy thought, might also explain why Troy almost got lost in Kent Parson's eyes, which Troy totally did but decidedly allows himself an 'almost'.

Luckily, Kent Parson doesn't seem too weirded out, if the way he huffs and doesn't kick Troy out is any indication.

|

Some days, all Troy can think about is he's lived through this shit already. Or maybe not this exact shit but something distressingly similar. As though the universe somehow decides instead of creating entirely new shit to just rehash the same worn-out shit and call it a day, what the fuck, which Troy thinks anyone would agree is a fair assessment given that Troy's days now narrow down to hockey, food, sleep, and sporadic libidinal maintenance, which he on one occasion fell asleep during.

Troy needs more heterogeneity in life, is what Troy's saying.

"Your building needs better security," Troy says by way of greeting/explanation, then shuffles his way in after long seconds of Jack Zimmermann not saying anything back. In Troy's defense, as the only two teenagers remaining, Troy's brain-addled self thought it would be prudent as well as dope to seek Jack Zimmermann's company, and that, consequently, has led to Troy showing up on Jack Zimmermann's doorstep unannounced -- with food, because Troy's a beaut.

There's a couch to sit on now -- comfy-looking with an open laptop on it that Troy guesses compensates for the grievous lack of TV -- and Troy takes Jack Zimmermann's continued silence as permission to go situate his butt and make himself at home. Meaning there's no warning before Troy comes to a halt at the sight of one unruly-cowlicked Kent Parson frowning in his general direction.

"Uh..." Troy craftily says to Kent Parson through the screen, and when Kent Parson's frown doesn't abate, lamely adds, "I um. 'Sup?"

A real smooth introduction later, they eat. Kent Parson has food, too, and Jack Zimmermann shares his with what Troy's brought. Evidently, Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson are still going strong, which, come to think of it, also explains why Jack Zimmermann's favorite pastimes seem to be compulsive texting and strategic retreating to his apartment.

Still eating, Troy supposes he gets it. No one on earth knows what it's like to be Jack Zimmermann but Kent Parson comes pretty close and vice versa. They weren't just the best pair the hockey world has ever seen, they really are best buds off the ice. It's fucked up how the media's made it seem like that's just what the pair of them kept repeating because they had to and will start openly hating each other now that they don't. They'd already left home to play in juniors and just as they made something for themselves, i.e. winning the whole damn thing, they had to leave and start over again. And such is the fate that befalls every hockey player, isn't it? To part with your family and friends and roughly everything you know. To fall prey to executive whims and media scrutiny for the sake of cold-blooded moneymaking. To dread the prospect of trades or getting sent down or god forbid career-ending injuries. But it's worth it, certainly. Every hockey player knows it's all worth it to get to play the best sport in the world.

|

They lose their first exhibition game, which comes as absolutely no surprise given the coordinated grace and insightful maneuvers displayed by their team, their headless roaches suffering episodic seizures of a team. That, however, has done nothing to deter Kent Parson from scoring. Six sodding goddamn goals, holy flaming bloody gobshite. Two wristers before anyone even knew what was going on, a couple of snipes here and there, and after the short-handed coast-to-coast near the end of the second, the greasy rebound garbage in the middle of the third was just an offhand formality, sincerely. Who fucking needs defense?

Well, they do, obviously.

|

They don't lose then don't lose some more, thanks to Jack Zimmermann, who can score, defend, and would be in net if they'd let him. Quite honestly, Jack Zimmermann is all over the place. But Jack Zimmermann knows what the hell he's doing. He may not say so, or maybe even think so, but he does. The preseason is proof enough and the Fabulous Las Vegas agrees.

Also, Troy makes the final roster. Fuck yeah.

|

One fateful practice before the dreadful season opener, Kent Parson does the most badass thing ever. He skates up to Coach, says "I'm not what this team needs, but here I am, and here's how it's gonna work," and then proceeds to tell everyone exactly what they need to do.

That, and Kent Parson straight-up reinvents himself from wing to center.

It's what the Aces had been building up for, before the Jack Zimmermann incident. The roster-shredding trades, the coaching and motley staff changes, all those cavalier and audacious decisions weren't completely random. Front office never fully committed, but it was obvious to anyone who took the time to look at the whole picture. Hell, there's still no captain, and this ragtag group of guys can't hope to make sense together without one specific key role that'd been taken for granted, the role Kent Parson's now determined to fulfill.

Kent Parson didn't do face-offs, not to anyone's knowledge, but he's learning and soon he's gonna excel.

Troy can see it suddenly clearly. Kent Parson, Savior of Las Vegas, chilling magnanimously by his lonesome against a dystopian desert backdrop with some loopy psychedelic music playing and a cactus or two on fire.

When Jack Zimmermann hits a slump, Kent Parson picks up the slack. This is no different.

|

They don't not lose and things are... not that bad, objectively.

Like, they haven't actually won a non-not-for-the-record non-'give the to-be-sent-down guys some more tryouts' game, but they haven't been thoroughly nor conclusively slaughtered, either. They go out there, put up a respectable fight, give their opponents a run for their money, and it's alright if they don't come out on top right away. The team is still rebuilding. The guys, the coaches, front office, everyone, still getting their act together, still learning to anticipate each other's moves, still adjusting to each other's strengths and weaknesses. It's gonna take time for things to fall into place.

Jack Zimmermann takes it pretty hard, though, both on himself and from the press, spends more time training and turns down more invitations to hang out. Unless it's to get drunk, which they do, often. Most of the guys are over twenty-one and understand their responsibility to provide for the less fortunate. It's Las Vegas, not much else to do but indulge.

They're playing decent hockey and things will get better, Troy can feel it.

|

"Love what you've done with the place. Very, uh... minimalistic," Troy chirps the next time he's at Kent Parson's apartment, because etiquette. Quantitatively, there's still not much in terms of furniture. Case in point, they're sitting on the floor watching TV, which is also on the floor.

"No wonder you're always here," Kent Parson responds flatly, the hand that's been fidgeting with his phone stops for a second as he does so. And really, Kent Parson fidgets with his phone a lot, everywhere, day in and day out, probably in his sleep, just not on the ice, doesn't even obsessively stare at it like a normal person. Troy knows this because Troy pays close attention. In a non-creepy non-serial-killer-y way, of course. It's just that Troy is observant by nature, and maybe gets a bit lonely a lot and so Troy finds excuses to hang out all the time. And Kent Parson for the most part lets him.

So Kent Parson's not well-versed in interior decoration, so what?

They're friends, Troy's sure, the same way Troy's sure gravity's got nothing on Kent Parson's cowlick. If anything, it's almost too easy being friends with Kent Parson, who's inherently chill and cool to exist with and the kind of soul you can't help but gravitate towards. Kent Parson being fucking good at hockey doesn't even factor in. Like, every other person here is someone else's competition except for Kent Parson and that's always how it's gonna be with top draft picks. Team is team, which counts for a lot, but there are things other than hockey. And if Kent Parson wants to spend his days pretending he's not dying to hear from whoever then Troy's gonna pretend to be well-adjusted and not-mope with him.

|

Something's missing, something important that Troy can't freaking identify. To be fair, none of them can, not even Coach, if the frenzied line roulette is anything to go by. The platitude dispenser isn't exactly working anymore. Something's gonna give.

Meanwhile, Jack Zimmermann likes WWII documentaries because of course he does and his taste is entrenching. Not that he watches them much, too many clusterfucks and not enough time. There are whirling maelstroms of things Troy doesn't understand about Jack Zimmermann, and Troy wonders, sometimes, maybe that's just how Jack Zimmermann wants it.

|

"You're missing a coffee table," Troy points out politely. They're on a couch. The bedroom now has a bed, complete with a bedframe and a non-inflatable mattress. It may have taken no less than two weeks but the TV stand from purgatory is now blessedly assembled. A coffee table is the logical next step, right?

"I don't know where it is," Kent Parson answers absently, putting his protein smoothie on the floor like a heathen, proving Troy's point precisely.

Troy is about to suggest 'Every furniture store ever, local coffee shops if you'd just say the word, and maybe even some nearby dumpster fire?' but then replays the sentence in his mind and analyzes the phrasing. It's not that Kent Parson doesn't know where to get a coffee table, he doesn't know where it is. As if there's only one coffee table worthy enough to be in his apartment, one that all the coffee tables in the world can't measure up to. The one true coffee table that reigns supreme.

It's no secret that hockey players are superstitious but this might be veering into ultra-stitious territory.

"Where did you see it last?" Troy treads cautiously for this is no laughing matter, and it's seventeen seconds later that Kent Parson appears to realize how certifiable he's sounded and quickly switches to the familiar subject of telling Troy to get his own place already.

|

There's a framed photo of Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson on Jack Zimmermann's nightstand, the kind that's painful to look at due to happiness radiation. Troy's full-on gonna chirp Jack Zimmermann about it, but then Jack Zimmermann unsubtly harbors a minor meltdown after noticing Troy noticing. The rest of Troy's visit is spent diplomatically not talking about it.

Someday, though.

|

Some fucking day.

The Sharks are fucking good this season and keep fucking scoring on them and, again, no surprise there, what with the Aces defense being consistently shit and all. Also again, is Kent Parson, with his physics-defying cowlick and fucking number-one-draft-pick beauty. Kent Parson, who exists, and is, for all intents and purposes, one player. A rookie, who at the moment is the only thing between the city of San Jose and a decisive blowout. All the Sharks have to do is stop one Kent fucking Parson and they. Fucking. Can't. Shit's poignantly disgusting and heartbreakingly obscene, whereupon Troy's fucking elated.

|

Almost two months in and Jack Zimmermann still continues on carrying the team. And it fucking shows. Look at the stats. Look at the highlights. Look at Jack Zimmermann's bruised and battered body. Well, maybe the last one's too private but the point stands. Just because everyone's said it can't be done won't stop Jack Zimmermann from doing it. The Aces even started winning a good while ago, leaps and bounds beyond the collective years before, a result of hard work and dedication, of blood and sweat and tears, of rolls upon rolls of stick tape and sock tape and medical tape. Not that it stops the press from headlining the likes of 'Miracle of miracles, most offensively stacked and highly anticipated Aces currently underperform less badly despite first overall Jack Zimmermann struggling to live up to potential' at any rate.

"You need to loosen up," Troy levels with Jack Zimmermann, who basically just got them another two points and somehow looks about ready to wander off into the desert never to be seen again. "Seriously, you've been super awesome, the one who's been showing us the way, the reason we're winning at all. Which, legit mad respect by the way and the rest of us are here for you, and like, you do you. But maybe with less poetic stick up the butt, y'know?"

This is what they're gonna look back to, Troy thinks, fifteen to twenty years from now when it'll all be over. Not rookie year -- although that adds to it. But this, here where shit unrelentingly happens and the end of the world is out to kill them. The liminal moments when everything counts and everyone does their damnedest, hoping they're verging on the cusp of something. Something great, something magic, something truly worthwhile. It'll be twenty-five years if they're lucky. And if they're really lucky, there'll be something left for them to keep.

|

The Isles are coming, and to commemorate the occasion there's a special production showing highlights from the Q? Which-- makes sense? In the sense that Troy can't help but watch it religiously? So dramatically compelling, so major juniors stats demolishing, so many chalices of hosts of tabernacles. That is, before the launch into an in-depth discussion about 'What if Jack Zimmermann hadn't ruined everything' and Troy nearly sprains every bit of his musculature from cringing because right, that's why it's on now. He is too weak to not keep watching, though, and has to try very hard not to spiral into the winding narrative of madness...

The remnants of what could've been and the everything that isn't.

"You bunch of fucking assholes," Kent Parson heralds from close range, collaterally yanking Troy's back to the present. When Troy dares to risk a glance, Kent Parson's eyes are gleaming something metallic and formidable, the promise of hell and high water, whereas Kent Parson himself is vaguely disastrous-looking and, from Troy's vantage point, due for another foray into the shower.

In retrospect, Troy should've insisted on going out. Braving daytime Las Vegas sounds appealingly bearable all of a sudden. Maybe go golfing. Or day-drinking while pretending to golf. Saint ciborium, they could be getting thrown out of golf courses right now. The possibilities are endless.

Before Troy can propose any of that, however, the tag line proclaims,

'Don't expect his coming back any time soon, for he may be the stuff of legends but Jack Zimmermann sure is not anyone's savior.'

It takes sacrificing on Troy's part but the TV survives, if only miraculously.

|

If the media were to be believed, tonight's game would not only rewrite history but also determine the fate of the free world and all mankind and the entire fucking cosmos. In reality, Troy's never imagined hockey could feel like this, like the cold recirculated air could brand your skin, like the sound of skate blades on ice could carve your lungs, like the sheer level of play could turn your existence to dust, and when Troy finally gets over the initial burst of frisson and stupor, neither has he ever seen Jack Zimmermann so excited, so alive, or with a smile so bright. Because Kent Parson is here at long last and is smashing all the hype and expectations and it's all Troy can do to fail to keep up while watching the best pair the hockey world has ever seen duke it out and redefine the game right before his very eyes.

So yeah, it's cool, the Aces even eke out a win, whatever.

After, though. The après-game scrum is about 510% more chaotic than usual and of course it's Jack Zimmermann at the center of the barrage, with paradigm-shifting questions ranging from "What's it like playing against your former linemate and best friend?" to "How do you feel about the fact that Mr Parson has unfailingly been leading you in goals and just recently yet again gone past you in points as well?"

Which means the bombardment takes approximately forever and a half, during which Troy lingers uselessly as Jack Zimmermann offers nothing but scrupulously laconic soundbites while remaining dead-eyed, stone-faced, and like he needs this shit to end but has resigned himself to it a long time ago.

What the hurry is later becomes clear when Troy finds them in an empty hallway outside the dressing room, pretty much clutching at each other. Jack Zimmermann, hair still dripping and shirt no doubt buttoned wrong and, from this angle, mind set on never letting Kent Parson go or his everything might just break. Troy only manages a suave "Hey" before they book it out, Jack Zimmermann casting a no-look "See you" and Kent Parson shooting Troy a douchey on-top-of-the-world smirk. They deserve each other, the pair of them. And Troy grins, doesn't know he's grinning until he's alone, didn't know he could be happy to be left behind.

|

It rains.

It's December in Las Vegas and somehow it's raining. Troy's not sure why this is happening, but the rain sure doesn't help. After staring at the screen for the longest thirty seconds, Kent Parson's now holding his phone to his chest, training his glare upwards, cursing at the sky. Or more accurately the ceiling. Something of the 'Why am I still here, What else am I supposed to do' variety. So maybe the high heavens?

Troy doesn't move, is making do on minimal breathing, doesn't even blink, having heard a thundery "Fuck" and jolted steadfastly awake to this. Whatever this is.

Maybe Troy shouldn't be here. Should've left, or at least taken the couch now that it's there. And normally he would've, lamentably, except last night was...

It was raining, go figure, but they didn't know that yet. They won, but the reporters kept asking Kent Parson about Jack Zimmermann, who sure wasn't "with us tonight but as his former teammate would you care to at least entertain the notion of what if?" Which, by the way, is fucked. Compound that with all the mind-screws that've been pullulating around and it's like, psychological warfare level of fucked. And what else was Troy to do but feel and join the guys in getting plastered with Kent Parson and, well, maybe resent Jack Zimmermann, but only a little.

Then Kent Parson started slurring about how he was gonna go sleep in the Mojave and looking like he whole-ass meant it and Troy had to intervene. It was a feat in and of itself, getting him home, and another feat entirely getting him out of his wet clothes and into bed. By that point Troy couldn't bother with finding spare blankets for the couch and--

Now Kent Parson rolls his head to the side and Troy finds himself staring directly into the hollowing nothingness of Kent Parson's eyes. The feeling is not unlike dreaming of endlessly falling, willingly into the galactic abyss, is maybe the best way to put it.

"You're still here," Kent Parson observes, voice low and detached, blinks and some light returns to his ocular voids, nonplussed. "You're always here."

Troy does his best possum-in-headlights impression, and when Kent Parson doesn't seem appeased, offers, suavely, "Uh... 'Sup?"

Silence, and a very judgmental one at that.

"I um. You were gonna camp out in the deluge and I-- am pretty sure you're my best friend," Troy imparts moments later, even though he maybe shouldn't. A few months are not really enough to know someone, but still. Also Troy too got absurdly drunk, so there's that. Troy's not ready, and, "Fuck them, y'know, for-- just fuck them. And like, if there's anything I can do to, y'know, just..."

And it's moments like this that have Troy pondering about Jack Zimmermann. If Jack Zimmermann was here, well. Well, it'd serve nothing of relevance since then Kent Parson wouldn't, be here. No one knows for sure what actually went down with Jack Zimmermann, not even Kent Parson who may or may not have been there and may or may not have been able to make a difference, Troy doesn't think, but. There doesn't always need to be a reason. Sometimes things just don't go the way they're supposed to.

It's dark out, but the light pollution is enough to make out Kent Parson's sleep-rumpled cowlick and contemplative face, of someone who knows of being unmade and having to remake themself. If Jack Zimmermann was here and still Kent Parson's... fuck, the voice in Troy's head sighs distraughtly. What can Troy do, really? Troy's not gonna storm the NHL headquarters or the mass communication industry, for they're not at war and he realistically can't. Troy's not that good at hockey, well, good enough to get told by Coach to stop living in a hotel but not enough to like, be of significant help. Troy could probably persuade Kent Parson to try meditative yoga. Letting one's mind drift away into serene, peaceful chaos sounds... not particularly unhelpful? For like, shedding light on why living the dream feels verily like inhabiting the business circle of hell. Enlightenment stuff.

Maybe they all should just wish for a new take on reality. But then again, who the fuck knows how differently their choices could've affected things.

"You're alright, Troy," Kent Parson mutters, discerning after the silence stretches out. Fiery glaze of vulnerability flashes in his eyes as he does, piercing shards, eleventy million degrees and making Troy's heart combust. "It wouldn't've worked out anyway."


End file.
